Trapped BY My Reckless Mafia Lord

CHAPTER 3: RUN OR STAY

I got in the car.

I didn't ask questions. I didn't argue. Something in Dante's voice had bypassed every rational thought in my head and spoken directly to the part of me that understood danger even when my mind didn't.

The door had barely closed before the car was moving.

I twisted in my seat and looked through the rear window. The black van across the street was pulling away from the curb, its headlights still off, sliding into the traffic behind us like a shadow.

"They're following us," I said.

"I know." Dante was on his phone already, speaking in low rapid Italian that I couldn't follow. His entire energy had transformed completely. Gone was the quiet man who had sat beside me at the bar and poured expensive whiskey into my glass. This version of him was something else entirely. Colder. Sharper. Like a blade that had just been unsheathed.

He ended the call and looked at the driver. "Take the east route. Don't stop for anything."

"Yes, sir." The driver didn't even flinch.

I pressed myself back into the leather seat and tried to slow my heartbeat down to something reasonable. The city moved past the windows in streaks of light and shadow. I watched the driver take three sharp turns in quick succession, and when I looked back again, the van was gone.

"Is it gone?" I asked.

"For now," Dante said.

"For now." I repeated his words slowly. "That is not comforting."

"It wasn't meant to be."

I turned to look at him fully. He was staring straight ahead, his profile carved and unreadable in the passing light. His jaw was tight. One hand rested on his thigh, fingers perfectly still, but I noticed his eyes moving constantly, checking every mirror, every window, every shadow outside.

"Who were those men?" I asked.

"People who should not have known where I was tonight."

"That still doesn't answer my question."

He finally turned to look at me. His dark eyes held mine for a moment and something moved through them that I couldn't name. "They work for someone who wants something from me. That's all you need to know right now."

"They had my photograph, Dante." I leaned forward slightly, lowering my voice even though the privacy screen between us and the driver was already up. "Not yours. Mine. Why would dangerous men in a van have a photograph of me?"

He didn't answer immediately, and that silence told me more than any words could.

"You know why," I said slowly. "Don't you."

"Kisarel..."

"Don't say my name like that. Like you're trying to calm me down." My voice was shaking now and I hated it. "Tell me what is going on. Why do those men have my picture?"

He exhaled slowly. "I don't know yet. But I intend to find out tonight."

The car turned into the underground parking lot of a building so tall its top disappeared into the clouds. Two men in black suits were already waiting at the entrance and fell into step beside the car before it had fully stopped.

Dante stepped out first, then turned and offered his hand to me.

I took it mostly because my legs felt unreliable.

"Stay close to me," he said quietly, his hand moving to the small of my back as we walked. "Don't wander. Don't open the door for anyone tonight. Not room service. Not housekeeping. No one."

"You're scaring me."

"Good," he said simply. "Scared keeps you alert."

We rode the elevator to the thirty-second floor in silence. The two men in suits had stayed downstairs. Now it was just the two of us, standing close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off his body.

I was still wearing his jacket.

I had completely forgotten.

The elevator opened directly into a private suite that took my breath away despite everything. Floor to ceiling windows stretched across the entire far wall, revealing the city sprawled out below like a glittering map. The furniture was dark and minimal. Everything looked expensive in a way that didn't need to announce itself.

"The guest room is through there," Dante said, nodding toward a door on the left. "It has everything you need."

"Thank you," I said quietly.

He moved toward the bar in the corner and poured himself a glass of water, his back to me. The muscles in his shoulders were tight beneath his shirt. He was thinking hard about something and I could almost feel the intensity of it from across the room.

"Dante," I said.

"Try to sleep, Kisarel."

"I can't sleep after what just happened." I set his jacket carefully on the back of a chair and walked slowly toward him. "Those men. The photograph. All of it. I need you to tell me something true right now. Anything."

He turned around. We were closer than I expected. I hadn't realized how much ground I had covered walking toward him.

He looked down at me with those unreadable dark eyes and for a moment neither of us spoke.

"You're safe here," he said finally. His voice was different now. Quieter. Like the words cost him something. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"Why does that feel like a promise and a warning at the same time?"

Something moved across his face. Almost a smile but not quite.

"Because with me," he said softly, "it usually is both."

I should have stepped back. Created distance. Remembered every reason why standing this close to this particular man was a terrible idea.

Instead I heard myself say something that the whiskey and the heartbreak and the fear had apparently decided for me.

"Make me forget tonight," I whispered. "All of it. Ryan. Valentina. The van. Everything." I held his gaze even as my heart hammered against my ribs. "Help me forget."

His eyes darkened immediately.

"Kisarel." My name in his mouth was a warning.

"I know who you are," I said. "I know this is a bad idea. I know it better than anyone." I swallowed hard. "I'm asking anyway."

For one long breathless moment he didn't move.

Then his hand came up slowly and his fingers brushed along my jaw so carefully that it almost undid me completely. Warm. Deliberate. Like I was something fragile he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch.

"You have no idea," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone, "what you're asking me for."

"Then show me," I breathed.

His forehead dropped against mine. His eyes closed. For one suspended moment the entire city below us disappeared and there was nothing in the world except the warmth of his hand on my face and the sound of both of us breathing.

Then his phone exploded with sound.

He pulled back instantly, his expression slamming shut like a door.

He looked at the screen and every trace of warmth drained from his face completely.

"What is it?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

He turned the phone slowly so I could see the screen.

It was a text message. Four words and a photograph.

The words read: We have your man.

And the photograph showed Marco, his most trusted friend, bound to a chair with blood running down his face.

But that wasn't what made

my blood turn to ice.

It was the background of the photograph.

Because I recognized it instantly.

It was my father's old house.